Devil's Own
by Grym
Summary: Lucifer, Chloe, and Trixie process the events of the season one finale. In which Lucifer is forced to take a harder look at his changing relationship with humans, Chloe asks uncomfortable questions, and Trixie finds peace in an unlikely place.


_A/N:_ Post-S1 finale fic. Because I wanted to know what happened when Lucifer, Chloe, and Trixie had a little down time to think about the past few days.

Shades of future Deckerstar, but sticking with canon continuity. With thanks to Praemonitor, whose brilliant "Devil's Advocate" series (on Ao3) made me want to try my hand at writing in this universe, too. Trixie's uglydoll is shamelessly borrowed from those stories with admiration for perfect worldbuilding. In my personal headcanon, that uglydoll is, of course, a gift from Mazikeen. Chloe doesn't know. ;)

Disclaimer: Just playing in the Lucifer Writers' devilish sandbox. Don't own, but hope to pay homage. Cross-posted to Ao3.

* * *

 **Devil's Own**

The car was silent as they drove away from the airport, all three passengers unusually subdued in the aftermath of the kidnapping and rescue. Trixie's small hand nestled just inside her mother's coat pocket, loose, not clutching, but Chloe knew the little gesture signaled the onset of shock and the after-effects of fear. Eyes on the road as she drove, she was glad to feel the warm pressure against her thigh, confirmation that the child was real, alive, and right there with her. Lucifer, too, had been surprisingly taciturn, sliding into the back seat without snark or protest when Chloe had buckled the child into the front.

As she navigated the busy evening L.A. streets, still riding the edge of adrenaline, her mind kept replaying scenes from the past hour. The nightmare drive to the hangar, her entire body trembling and nauseous with panic. Trixie's frightened, tear-stained face. Malcolm's sneer as he waved the gun, careless insanity gleaming in his eyes. That paper airplane gliding from nowhere. The shock of gunfire, the smell of cordite and diesel, and Lucifer's startled gasp, stiffening, falling. A pool of blood smeared across the concrete floor, coalescing into bloody footprints that somehow walked away. Her own shaken voice: "I thought he killed you." And Lucifer's quiet response: "Oh, he did." He had glanced at the too-solemn child before adding, "I got better."

Chloe shook her head, blinking away the fog of confusion and relief, and reached down to rub Trixie's hand through the thick wool of her coat. It could have gone so much worse. It could have ended with-

She jumped when Lucifer spoke, his low voice cutting into her thoughts, and had to catch at the steering wheel. "What? Sorry, what did you say?"

"Can you drop me at Lux?" he repeated, tone uncharacteristically flat and serious. "I need to see my brother and Maze."

"Are you sure?" She flicked her eyes up to the rear view mirror only to find him staring out of his window and not, as usual, back at her with uncanny intensity. "I thought I'd get Trixie home. You could come with us," she offered. Strangely, she found wanted _him_ with her now, too. Needed him to be where she could see him, verify that he still moved, breathed. That she hadn't somehow left him behind, laid out alongside Malcolm's cooling corpse.

He shook his head, thoughts clearly elsewhere. "Can't. I need to speak to my brother rather urgently." She saw him draw a heavy breath, turn his eyes back into the car and down at himself. He fingered the front placket of his shirt. "And I need a new shirt. This really won't do."

In the mirror, she examined him with quick glances through the protective wire mesh. The front of his grey shirt was stiff with what she had assumed was blood, dark under the passing streetlights. His expression seemed unusually shuttered, the lines between his dark brows deep with unease. She and Trixie probably looked similarly shaken after their nightmare afternoon, but it was peculiar to see it in Lucifer. "Okay," she agreed, swallowing her reluctance. "We're almost in that part of town. We'll be there in a few minutes."

When he stepped out of the squad car, Lucifer lingered for a minute at her open window, staring down at her in disconcerting silence. He reached out, fingers gripping the frame of the door hard enough that she thought his signet ring might score it, and he bent toward her as if to say something important. A cool breeze stirred his hair, bringing the faintest smell of smoke and a sour coppery tang she associated with the most grotesque crime scenes. Burning concrete and brick, torn skin and offal and blood. Then, he turned abruptly away toward the club entrance without speaking, and the ghastly odor was gone.

She called after him instinctively. "Lucifer!"

When he looked back, the sodium streetlamp caught in his eyes, and they reflected red like an animal's in headlights, startled and predatory and unreal. "Detective?" His voice was rough, cracked, unlike his usual smooth tones.

"When you're done, come over. I —" She hesitated, unsure what she was asking for. _I need to know you're okay. I need to know we're all okay._ "Just—we should talk."

He nodded brusquely, turned and vanished into the club.

* * *

The house was dark and quiet when she latched the door behind them. Trixie's fingers were curled around hers, maintaining tentative contact without quite clinging. They stood for a moment, staring at each other. Then Chloe heaved a deep breath and reached for normalcy, steadying her voice and pulling her face into a smile. "Okay, monkey. Lucifer was right, you know. It's way past your bedtime. Time for a bath and sleep. Are you hungry?"

The little girl thought about it for several seconds, too quiet, too still, and finally shook her head. "No, Mommy."

"Not even a bite of chocolate cake? Just a small one?"

"Nuh-uh." The child looked shell-shocked, pupils wide in the dim light, face pale and drawn.

Chloe impulsively seized her in a quick hug, holding her shoulders and looking down into her face, trying to brighten her own smile. "That's okay. You don't have to be hungry, baby. But you do have to have a bath. So, go on, you little stinker." She gave her a gentle push in the direction of the stairs.

Trixie still lingered, lost. "Will you come with me?" she asked softly.

"I'll come with you," Chloe agreed immediately, feeling both a new wave of sympathy and, at the same time, the loosening of a knot in her own chest. She hadn't realized how little she wanted to let her out of her sight just now. "I could really wash up a bit, too, couldn't I?"

After the bath, Trixie pink and damp from the hot water, Chloe helped her into her most colorful neon green and purple pajamas and tickle-chased her down to bed. Although the child ran and squirmed and giggled a little, everything seemed muted, a shadow of their normal bedtime chaos. She quietened as Chloe tucked her in and pulled her uglydoll under the covers with her, holding its fleecy shape tight.

With a pang, Chloe stretched out alongside her daughter. "How about a story? The sneezing panda? The library lion?"

Trixie shook her head, but her fingers found Chloe's again. "You saved me, Mommy," she said quietly, cuddling closer. "You and Lucifer."

Chloe's throat closed in a swell of emotion. She pulled her daughter and the doll against her, resting her chin on the bathtime-wet hair to hide her own tears. She could have lost Trixie tonight. Forever. She had broken LAPD protocols, stolen evidence and turned it over to her daughter's kidnapper. She had faced a crazed gunman who had every intention of murdering both of them. She had no reason to believe the child would have escaped despite her desperate ploy to make her hide. Chloe gasped soundlessly, the strangling pressure turning into pain, her arms tightening. Tears trickled down into the child's hair.

Trixie wiggled, pushing against her until she could look up. "You don't have to cry. I'm okay. You saved me."

Chloe smiled wetly, took a shaky breath. "Yeah, baby. I guess so. But you were so very brave, too. You helped so much."

"And Lucifer saved you. Didn't he?"

"Yeah. He did." Chloe mopped her face with her sleeve.

Trixie bit her lip for a moment. "I know I was supposed to hide, but I turned around. Lucifer can really throw paper airplanes!" Her face split into a unexpected sunshine grin. "Even Noah at school can't make them go that far! And he throws them at the teacher when she's not looking," she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

Chloe laughed. "Does he, now? I didn't see Lucifer throw the airplane—but it must have been something special to beat Noah's." _And given where Lucifer was standing, it would have been an Olympic feat to glide a paper plane across Malcolm's line of sight. The man would need to have telekinesis or the devil's own luck to hit the industrial airflow in the airport. Which he apparently did._

Trixie tilted her head, and Chloe was struck by the gesture's resemblance to Lucifer when he was confused (usually by something perfectly normal). How much time had the child spent around the club owner to pick that up? "Did Lucifer die, Mommy?" The question was simple and curious, unfazed by its underlying craziness.

"No, monkey. You saw he didn't." But as soon as the words passed her lips, Chloe felt unsure. She remembered again the gunshot, Lucifer's body jerking back, rigid with pain and shock, flailing in the air as he collapsed. The shine of wetness across the stomach of his shirt, blood spreading beneath him as he shook on the concrete floor. Chloe licked her lips, frowning at the clutch of doubt—something she had felt too many times before around Lucifer.

Trixie didn't notice her mother's hesitation. "He _said_ he did," she insisted matter-of-factly. "And Lucifer doesn't lie."

"He doesn't seem to, no," Chloe agreed. "But he also doesn't always tell the whole truth." _Like whatever had him so on edge recently. Like who he actually is and where he was five years ago. Like how he vanished and reappeared and survived against all evidence tonight._

"Are you sure?"

"He didn't die, Trix." Beyond that, Chloe had to admit she wasn't sure about anything regarding her civilian partner who professed to be the Devil incarnate. "But he's got to have some kind of amazing body armor or special effects rig that lets him keep up his whole schtick. It probably costs a fortune, but if anyone has it to spend, he does. I just wish I knew how he—" She realized she was thinking out loud and stopped.

Trixie's eyes sparkled. "You still think he's a magician! But you can't prove it," she guessed, drawing out "proooooove," sing-song and teasing.

Chloe answered the child's toothy grin with a wry smile of her own, glad that this odd little talk about Lucifer seemed somehow cheering. "Well, whether he got hurt or not, you saw that he got better. That's the important part, right?"

Trixie nodded and slid down beneath her comforter, cuddling into her pillow and plush toy. "Yeah. I'm glad he got better. I like him."

"I like him, too." That much she knew. What it meant, however, given who he said he was, who he probably was ...? Well, that was a thought for a less wrung-out day. For now, more than anything, she really wished he would appear at their door just to reconfirm that he, too, had walked away unharmed. Again. Somehow.

Trixie yawned, her eyes at half-mast. "I'm going to stay awake until Lucifer comes over tonight, Mommy," she mumbled, nodding a little.

"You do that, baby. Good night. Sweet dreams."

She switched off the light, but left the little owl-shaped nightlight burning brightly. As she shut the door, she snorted at the "No Boys Allowed" sign with its bonus permissions for Lucifer (first) and Dad (second)—and then opened the door again so she could see her daughter's sleeping form faintly outlined by the owl's light. She lingered in the doorway for long minutes, watching, then went to the kitchen to brew a large pot of coffee, leaving the door open behind her.

Chloe had no intention of trying to sleep. Between the jangling of her own nerves and the nightmares she expected were awaiting her, sleep was the last thing she wanted just now. She peered out the windows several times, looking for the headlights of a familiar '61 Corvette, listening for the thrum of rock music coming along the beach. She picked up and put down at least seven different books and clicked through all of the late-night nonsense on the television. She stood in Trixie's doorway, listening to the precious sound of snoring muffled by blankets. Almost certain that the sky beyond the curtains would begin lightening soon, she had sat down at the kitchen alcove with a third cup of coffee, her work tablet, and a blanket when Lucifer finally arrived.

He knocked softly (he really was learning some manners, she thought), but before she could cross to the door, it opened on its own. (How did he do that? Could someone else do that?) He stood in the shadows of her front porch, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, head ducked slightly to peer at her. He smelled of fine bourbon and tobacco, a surprisingly comforting waft of familiarity. For a second, the horrible brimstone and blood odor from earlier came back to her unbidden, and she looked up at him in silence, discomfited without knowing why.

After a moment, he ventured, "Evening, Detective. You said I should—"

"Yes!" she stepped aside and gestured him in. "Yes. I'm glad you did. Sorry. It's been a long night. Come on in. Trixie's asleep, so we need to keep it quiet."

His lascivious smile looked forced. "Too bad. This is why I abhor children, you know. They ruin all the noisy kinds of fun."

She nudged him toward a chair and turned back to the kitchen, suddenly busy. "Do you never stop trying to—" She cut herself off. "No. No, you don't. I don't even need to ask. Do you want coffee? Do you even drink anything that isn't alcohol?"

He perched on the edge of the kitchen table, crossing his arms across his chest, head tilting slightly. "You're babbling," he said, a touch of wonder in his voice. "Are you quite alright?"

She stopped and turned to look at him, breathing carefully, feeling a wave of relief at simply seeing him here. _He's fine, healthy, whole. You can see it._ She sighed and shook her head, pushing loose strands of hair out of her face. "No. Yes. I don't know. Just tired, I guess," she finally acceded.

"Ah. Understandable. I would obviously offer to take you to bed. Quietly," he added with a smirk that turned into a chuckle when she scowled at him. "I'm getting the impression it might not be quite in the cards for tonight, however."

"You think?" She concentrated on finding another clean mug and pouring him a cup of the strong, bitter coffee she preferred. When she turned to hand him the cup, he was just behind her, looking down his arched nose with concern and curiosity. "Jesus!" she startled. "I should be used to you doing that by now."

"Nope. Sorry. We've had this conversation before, Detective. Wrong deity entirely. No idea how you keep mixing us up. I'm the fun one." He slipped the cup from her shaking fingers and slid it onto the counter.

She glanced down at her hands in surprise. Delayed onset of shock, she guessed, coupled with caffeine jitters. Trixie wasn't the only one feeling a little shaken tonight.

"Whatever. I'm just glad you're okay," she said a little more testily than she intended. "Okay?"

"Yes, well—me, too. And you and your spawn, of course."

Standing in the confines of the kitchen, she took the opportunity to inspect him more closely. "You _are_ okay, aren't you?" she asked, searching his face. His dark eyes seemed more shadowed than usual, the fine lines around them visible even in the dim light, the skin beneath slightly sunken and grey. Despite offers to take her to bed, the innuendo seemed half-hearted, lacking his trademark playfulness.

She tried to take him all in, unsure what the was expecting, what she needed to confirm. He leaned heavily back against the stove, holding his weight on his hands, watching her in turn. His hair had begun to curl in the damp L.A. pre-morning, falling out of its usual coiffed lines. He had changed into a fresh white tailored shirt, neatly tucked into dark grey trousers, but had left off the matching jacket and cuff links, his open cuffs and collar giving him a slightly dissolute and weary air.

She closed her eyes against a small twinge of inappropriate interest that she didn't want to think about just now. Not after today. Not with Dan sitting in jail. Not with Lucifer himself standing so close that she could smell his cologne and the smokiness that was also probably just him, and—just for a moment—that faint undercurrent of something unpleasant again. She shook her head. He was her friend, damn it. At this point, maybe her best and even her only friend. And that was it, thank you very much. That was all she could cope with right now.

"I am perfectly fine, as you could see for yourself if you were still looking at me." He sounded quizzical, testing the waters.

She took a step back from him, aware that the (too compelling) evidence was right in front of her, and almost ashamed of her gullibility to have fallen for his "dying" act. But he had looked so startled when the gun fired, the rattle of his breath loud in the empty hangar, the blood so real. She thought she'd even heard him praying, an earnest murmur beneath her own tidal wave of terror as Malcolm stalked her. Abruptly, the spectral hand of panic closed around her again, stealing her breath, and she had to swallow hard against it.

"What is it?" Lucifer made an aborted move toward her. "Detective? What's wrong?"

A steadying breath. And a crazy, stupid, inappropriate, Lucifer-ish idea. "I need you to open your shirt," she said quickly, before she actually thought about what she was asking—or how he'd probably never let her live it down.

"Why, Detective Decker." His leer still didn't quite reach his eyes, but she could see him make the effort. A part of her felt absurdly grateful for it, another stretch toward normalcy. "That's more like it."

"No," she cut him off. "None of that. You were shot. Point blank. I saw the blood." _So much blood_. She flailed one hand at him. "Open. Or off, I don't care. But I need to be sure. I need to know."

He stepped forward, looming over her, blocking the dim kitchen light with his body. "Well, well. I always imagined you might be the dominant and demanding sort. Should I get the handcuffs?"

"I'm not playing, Lucifer," she ground out, trying not to give ground as he closed the distance between them.

"More's the pity. A little play might be just the thing." His voice was low, sensual, but she thought there was still a hint of reserve behind it.

She lifted a staying finger. "Look, my husband is in jail—"

"Ex-husband," he corrected.

"Fine. My ex is in jail. My daughter was kidnapped. I was nearly murdered by a dirty cop. And then you apparently died and rose from the dead—!"

"Runs in my family, it seems." Lucifer grimaced, casting his eyes upward. "At least _I_ didn't have to wait three days. That wouldn't have helped at all, now, would it?"

The delusional devil reference surprisingly steadied her. Again, reminders of normal life—at least where Lucifer was concerned. Blurred boundaries and innuendo and impossibilities and madness that somehow wasn't at all concerning, even when it involved demons and angel wings and Satan himself. "Can you just humor me, please? I know it's stupid, but it's been that kind of week."

"Well, you did let me see your back when I asked yesterday," he acknowledged. "Tit for tat? I show you mine since you showed me yours? Is this going to become a rather delectable habit?"

 _Was it really only yesterday?_ "Before you say anything else, no. And in spite of your chronic flirtation problem, I don't actually think you're in the mood, either."

He raised one eyebrow in challenge. "Don't you? In that case, feel free to help yourself, Detective." He made a flippant gesture to himself like an auctioneer showcasing his wares, then held his hands loosely out to the sides in invitation. Calling her bluff. Daring her. _Go on, Detective,_ she could practically hear him thinking _. If you have the proverbial stones_.

 _Fine_. She gritted her teeth, steeled herself, and stepped up to him to unfasten his topmost button. Beneath her fingers, his chest rose as he inhaled sharply and, for a moment, seemed to hold his breath. Another button, and a third. She continued to be nerve-wrackingly aware of his breathing (which she would have sworn quickened) and of the warmth radiating through the smooth Egyptian cotton. She didn't dare look up at this face, just in case he'd be grinning at her in triumph. Or, even worse, closing his eyes as if in prayer. Either might undo her resolve.

She worked her way down and tugged his shirttail free of his trousers to expose the smooth, well-muscled torso. Turning him into the light, she searched the expanse of his body for any signs of damage and felt increasingly silly as she did so. What did she think this would accomplish? Why did it make her feel better anyway?

"You _can_ touch, Detective." The smile that colored his voice was somehow more comforting than seductive. "Believe me, I won't mind."

 _In for a penny . . ._ Tentative at first, she smoothed one hand just below his pectoral muscles and down, feeling the warm, living skin under her fingers, contoured with exercise (why couldn't she imagine him at the gym?). He twitched once as if ticklish, but otherwise held himself still. She pushed the panels of his shirt aside to bare his chest and belly completely, stepped around him to run her hands over his sides, and lifted the shirt in the back, careful to avoid the gnarled scars along his shoulder blades.

Nothing.

What had she expected to find? A neatly stitched bullet hole? A gaping exit wound? The telltale bruises left beneath a flack jacket?

"You're welcome to keep going, Detective," he purred softly. "If you need to examine the lower bits, for instance."

Chloe rolled her eyes. "No. No, that's fine. Thanks. I didn't really expect—" She stepped back from him, and, as she did so, the light caught differently on the skin over his lower ribs. "Wait. Lucifer, what's this?" She tugged him into the living room beneath her reading lamp. In its bright halogen glow, she could just make out faint patterns sketched into his skin, hexagonal grid lines radiating out from a central point on his abdomen. Like very old scars, almost intangible, unnatural in their mathematical precision as if cut by an artist or a machine. And located exactly where she would have sworn Malcolm's bullet had penetrated. "What the hell is that?"

"Exactly." He gave a bitter bark of laughter. "Of course _you_ can see that."

"What is it, Lucifer?"

"The basalt stones of Hell, if you must know," he grumbled unhappily. "A little reminder that I just made a deal. The deal of this millennium, actually. Seems like deals run in the family after all. Like son, like Father."

"Deal?" Chloe demanded, dragging him down with her onto the sofa. "Lucifer, talk to me. What are those marks?"

Lucifer pulled his shirt closed, a strangely self-protective gesture from a man who never minded his (or anyone's) nakedness. "A promise. Or a warning. Or both. It seems if I don't uphold my end of the bargain, your—" He stopped abruptly. "Well." Closing his eyes for a moment, he sagged back into the cushions. "Never mind, Detective. Suffice it to say that Bad Things may happen—and He will definitely take back his secondary gift, I think. Back to Hell for the Devil. And no quick-fix subway token this time."

It seemed like gibberish to her, self-deprecating and caustic. "You're not making sense. You said 'he.' Your father? Are they—are they related to the scars on your back?" she asked in a rush, almost apologetic.

"No." A dismissive wave of one hand. "No, those are five years old, I told you. These are new. Tonight, in fact. A token from my Father so I won't forget what I owe. How He thinks I'm likely to, given the news, I'll never understand. But then, we've never been on the same page before, so why should we be now, eh?" He seemed unbearably tired and disheartened, as if burnt out on ancient anger and grief.

Chloe wasn't sure if she should press him. "Lucifer, you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to talk about it. But these can't be from tonight."

"You've seen me bare-chested before, Detective," he insisted. "Well, rather a lot more than just my chest." Another lackluster smirk. "No scars then, if you recall. Except my wings."

She felt herself redden at the memory. "I wasn't exactly looking that closely."

"Weren't you, though?" A flash of a grin at her discomfiture.

"Don't change the subject."

He sighed. "Is this you being a detective, Detective?" His black eyes met hers, all teasing gone.

"I just want to understand what happened to you. Maybe I can help."

"I assure you, you can't," he bit out, suddenly sharp. "I've told you the truth often enough. Not that you believe me. And now—" He leaned forward, hands dangling loosely between his knees. "Now, given my deal, it's perhaps better if you don't change your mind."

"About what? You being the Devil? Lucifer, come on. Not tonight."

"I _am_ the Devil, Detective," he said wearily.

Chloe huffed, frustrated. She wasn't going to win this one. The man never broke character, not even in dire crisis. "Well, that still doesn't explain tonight."

"Of course it does. I died. I came back because I traded my services for . . ." His dark gaze slid away again. "Doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "Do you know, it actually began with a truly bad bargain with your crooked colleague, Malcolm? Even the Devil can make a mistake, it seems."

She frowned. "You made a deal with Malcolm? Tonight?"

"No, no, around the same time as our Dunlear Foundation escapade. Just before I realized that my little problem with mort—" He stopped, narrowing his eyes at her suspiciously. "Well, that doesn't matter, either. Suffice it to say, I traded my ticket back to Hell for my continued life topside. Turns out, I didn't need to, but a deal is a deal."

Chloe had interrogated hundreds of criminals and navigated tough conversations with thousands of others, so she could feel him deliberately sidestep from one line of thought to another that seemed-what? Safer? It wasn't like Lucifer to edit himself, verbally or otherwise, and she felt tendrils of worry twist in the pit of her stomach again. She pursed her lips, considering. _He's here. He's well. But there's still something he's not saying. There's been something wrong for days._

Lucifer had continued. "He took that as some kind of permission to embark on his murder spree, killed those poor misguided idiots in my name. Why does everyone assume that's what I want? Evil, cruelty, hate—stupid human things.I had every intention of punishing him for his presumption. He deserved to feel what Hell could be like when the Devil was still in residence." A savage grin crept across his face, teeth flashing white and feral for a second. "Especially since our wretched deal meant he might escape it all too soon. Once I finished with him, I thought you could lock him away in a cold, dark room somewhere and let him rot for several decades instead." The muscles of his face twitched, a stifled snarl. "Unfortunately, neither of us got to punish him because _you_ had to go and kill him. You have a really nasty habit of doing that, Detective."

"He was about to shoot you! Again!" she reminded him, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. "What am I even saying? So, he shot you—or you made it look like he shot you. It's not as if you haven't been shot right in front of me before."

"Yes," he agreed, his ferocity ebbing as quickly as it had arisen. "By you, in fact."

"That's not the same thing, Lucifer."

"Isn't it?" He was looking at her challengingly again. "You asked me what happened. I'm telling you. It's not my fault if you won't actually hear it. For an otherwise grounded, literal, 'just-the-facts' kind of person, you have very selective hearing sometimes."

"But what you're telling me isn't fact. It's fantasy. It can't be fact, Lucifer. Any more than when Jimmy Barnes shot you six times, and you walked away. Malcolm shot you, and—" She stopped, unsure again. "And you died. And then somehow didn't."

"Jimmy Barnes and Malcolm Pornstache are not remotely the same," he said slowly, as if explaining something simple to an even simpler child. "Jimmy paid off his deal. He erred in other ways—nearly killing you, for instance. Malcolm, however, failed to uphold _his_ end of our bargain and, well, you see how that turned out for him. He shot me, so I got my coin back. Temporarily and just in time, as it happens. Now he's stuck down in Effrul, waiting until the Devil returns home—and a long wait that's going to be." He chuckled darkly. "Moral of tonight's story: Don't go back on a bargain with the Adversary. It will not end well."

"The Adversary. Deals with the Devil." Chloe reached for her long-cold coffee, grimacing as she swallowed. "Ask a simple question, get a Lucifer answer. Don't know why I'm surprised."

He lifted his chin. "You held a gun on me tonight, too, as I recall." She could feel him pull away from her somehow, though he hadn't moved. His unblinking eyes in the lamplight had gone wide and less certain, reminding her of how he'd looked standing at gunpoint in front of the Lux bar, hands raised in disbelief, his faith in her visibly breaking. _That's_ all _the matters, Detective._

"I wouldn't have shot you, Lucifer. You have to know that."

"Do I? It wouldn't be the first time." The edge of petulance in his tone grated against her already raw nerves.

"The first time was different!" she snapped, banging her cup down on the table. "Yes, I fell for your stupid immortality charade. I admit it! But what the hell were you trying to do there at Lux? Goading junior officers? Threatening them with even the possibility that you're reaching for a gun? What the hell was that? There was a dead body at our feet, one you'd been arguing with mere hours before on local television! If you were innocent, why would you stand there and laugh? Why would you pull that disappearing stunt, however you did it? Why did you run instead of just trusting me?"

He stared at her sidelong, saying nothing.

She glared back, confusion and anxiety coalescing in a burst of anger. "Come on, Lucifer. Admit that you hadn't been acting like yourself for days. Ever since that first poor Satanist was found. No, before that! Ever since that night—the last time you came to my house, remember? You've been being weird for weeks. What was I supposed to think?" Her voice grew louder, strident with emotion, and he actually glanced a warning over her shoulder at Trixie's open door, much to her surprise.

He blinked, looked down at himself in equal surprise, then seemed to shake it off. "Trust, Detective? I should have trusted you? With your gun and your demands and—" He stopped, turning away from her, mouth pressed into a thin line. "You clearly had run out of trust in _me_ , Detective. As if I could have done those terrible things, those evil, stupid, pointless things!"

"Lucifer, it wasn't about—"

"I had my reasons for acting as I did, I assure you."

"What reasons?" She hissed, hating the defensiveness in her tone. "What reason—other than having done something horrible or shameful—could you possibly have for avoiding me for three whole weeks?"

"I told you, Lux doesn't actually run itself—"

"Bullshit," she countered. "I thought you didn't lie."

"I don't. And it doesn't." Now he sounded defensive.

"But it also doesn't keep you from answering my calls. Or sitting uninvited on my desk at the station. Or showing up at a crime scene you haven't even been informed about. Or, hell, walking into my locked house at all hours of the day."

He smirked. "You have to admit that omelet was delicious."

"Stop changing the subject. You wouldn't even ride in my car! It's like you were hiding something. From me." Chloe felt again the hollowness somewhere in her gut, the sick worry that Lucifer was, in fact, something terrible, something she would eventually lose because he wasn't what he appeared.

"Detective, really—"

"And why on earth didn't you just tell me if my—" She searched for the right word. "—confession of that night made you uncomfortable? For crying out loud, you told me that I make you vulnerable, too. For once, I felt like we were on the same page, like we were beginning to—I don't know—be something more than a weird, dysfunctional work thing. Then, you vanish for three weeks? At first, I thought you'd just panicked over a little sentiment. I mean, what is it with men and trust issues?"

"I trust you, Detective!" He interrupted her tirade, then ran a hand over this stubbled chin before continuing more slowly. "I think I do. Usually. I just didn't—couldn't—take the risk. . ." He trailed off, looking lost.

"Risk? You said something about the only person you trusted being used to hurt you," she prompted. "There at the club. Before everything went pear-shaped. Before I found Williams' body. Lucifer, what did you mean by that?"

The muscles in his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck rigid with tension. He held himself stiffly, not meeting her eyes again. Anger? Fear? Disgust? She wasn't sure what emotions warred beneath the surface, but he was clearly wrestling with something, debating with himself.

Chloe stopped herself from reaching out to him, tried to be patient and wait. She watched his face with concern, feeling her own anger and worry gutter in the wake of his distress.

Several minutes passed before he spoke again, his voice sounding hoarse, strained. "I meant precisely what I said, if you were listening. I am not a creature of trust; I haven't been since long before the Fall. I don't give it, and I don't inspire it in others. Who would be fool enough to trust the Devil, after all?" He looked inexpressibly sad, his eyes on his clasped hands, his shoulders hunched. "Except—sometimes, it seems—you, Chloe."

Her first name on his tongue was rare and unexpected. She felt it toll through her like a bell, underscoring the gravity of his words—even couched in delusion or performance or whatever it was he needed to say these things.

He ploughed ahead. "Do you know, I barely recognized it after so very long? In all my years, I have never been trusted by a human. Nor by my brothers since I fell. And certainly not by demonkind. Well, except for Maze, but she is bound to my service and, even then, has proven she can betray me. But, for some unfathomable reason, I thought you trusted me. You, among the whole history of humanity."

"I do trust you, Lucifer," she murmured, not even sure if he could hear her. "I told you that before."

"And what's more baffling than the human who trusts the Devil?" He stopped, licked his lips, shook his head as if he would resist the very idea.

"The Devil who trusts a human?" Chloe guessed.

He huffed a soft laugh. "Right in one."

"Is it such a bad thing?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I abandoned my throne in Hell because I was done playing by the rules. Isn't that what free will is all about, after all? The chance to make a mistake, pay the price, get it right or wrong, live or die with the consequences? Choose to trust? Hope that the whole thing isn't just another one of Heaven or Hell's typical treacheries?" Lucifer heaved a breath, straightened and met her gaze, suddenly direct and determined as if having come to a decision

Chloe felt herself sit forward in response, fascinated as she watched Lucifer Morningstar gather and measure his words.

"I am many things, Detective, and you know that I'm hardly free of sin. But I have never lied to you about anything that mattered. In these last few weeks, however, I have perhaps been guilty of sins of omission. A breach of—and I genuinely cannot believe I'm saying this—of faith. In whatever this is." He made a small, almost helpless gesture between them. "Whatever we are."

She nodded, remembering her own words. _Us. Our thing. Maybe it goes beyond just work or sex._

"I wasn't avoiding you because I'd done something evil. I assure you I haven't, not for many, many years." A thin, grim smile, too brittle to be real. "I had to stay at a distance because I meant what I said that night—what we said here. You do, in fact, make me vulnerable. And not just metaphorically."

"What does that mean exactly?" She couldn't help frowning at him.

"Just what it says on the tin," he insisted. "You know I bleed if you shoot me. And you know I don't when other people do. Whatever you imagine of me beyond that, you've ample evidence about this. You saw it yourself when we first met, when Delilah died, when Jimmy shot us both. I thought—" He grimaced, the memory of hopelessness in his eyes. "I thought these past weeks that you might have even been a pawn of my Father's or were perhaps out to destroy me for your own ends."

"You wanted to know if I was an angel." She remembered his strange paranoia in the satanic cult's den, his cool and suspicious distance, his broad hands against her back. "Angels can hurt other angels, you said."

"Yes," he confirmed. "I—I've decided you're not. Out to destroy me, that is. But there are still consequences, even if you're not my enemy. What you do to me is dangerous. Especially now."

"I would never—"

His mouth tightened, and he shook his head, his long, pianist's fingers closing over her wrist in an iron grip. "Stop, Detective. Just listen. You _are_ dangerous to me. And I suspect, now, that you neither realize that nor can choose to be otherwise. So, I have two choices: stay away from you and yours," another quick shift of his eyes toward her daughter's room, "and be safer. Or accept the risk. All of it. Including trusting you with the knowledge of my mortality, knowledge that you could turn against me if my trust is misplaced. I wasn't sure I could, before. But I'm choosing now."

Chloe opened her mouth to protest again, but he silenced her with a gesture. "Detective, let me be clear. I am, as I've told you, functionally immortal. But it seems I can be hurt in your presence. I can die when I'm near you. Being with you is a grave threat to my very existence on this plane. I don't understand it, yet, so I've no way to guard against it. But I'm not willing to stay away, not anymore. I should have told you before, but I was . . . " He exhaled slowly. "As impossible as it seems, I think I was afraid. And the Devil has never been afraid. I plunged from Heaven, burning with the fire of Creation, became Hell's catalyst and earth's cataclysm, reigned over billions of demons and slavering hellspawn for eons—all without an ounce of fear. But now, these damnable human emotions! So inconvenient and unpredictable!"

She stared at his earnest face, every cop instinct in her screaming that he was speaking the truth. But, of course, it couldn't possibly be real. Not literally. No more than returning from the dead or being on vacation from Hell. _Or having a ninja bartender. Or being able to throw men larger than himself through plate glass windows with one hand. Or coming back hale and whole from bleeding out on a cold concrete floor._ But she understood fear. She understood feeling exposed and vulnerable and helpless. After tonight, she understood better than ever. She could hold on to that for now amidst the other unanswered questions.

"Detective?"

She shook her head slowly, thinking. "I was near you when Malcolm shot you."

"You were. And you saw what happened. I died."

"But—what? It didn't stick? That's not how death works, Lucifer."

"It does when my Father gets involved. Didn't you ever read the Bible?"

"There's more you're not telling me." She back-tracked through all he'd said, small references to larger happenings and coming problems, all of them mired and obscured in metaphor. "Why is being vulnerable so dangerous 'especially now'? What did you bargain in order to—I don't know—be resurrected? How did—?"

There was a flurry of movement from Trixie's room, a chirped cry of "Lucifer!" and the child hurtled into the den at top speed. She leapt onto the sofa beside Lucifer, pony tails flying, and attached herself tightly around his middle. "Lucifer, you came!"

He drew back abruptly, hands aloft as if she might scald him. "Ah, hello, spawn." He looked to Chloe, half-scolding, half-appeal-for-help. "Must she always be like this? Doesn't she have a small primate crate or something you can keep her in?" He pointed toward the child's bedroom hopefully.

"I went to sleep, but you and Mommy woke me up," she sang, clearly ecstatic to find her favorite person more within reach than usual. She snuggled into him, oblivious to his pained expression.

"Um. Yes. Your mother woke you with her incessant questions, did she?" Another reprimanding glance at Chloe. "She does that. They're usually very boring questions, too. Seems to be an occupational hazard of working for the police."

Chloe hid her laughter behind her empty coffee mug. "You work for the police, too, you know."

"I grace them with my very valuable assistance, yes. It's not quite the same thing." He didn't seem to know what to do his his hands, and drawing himself up to his normally impressive height wasn't nearly as effective when squashed into the furniture by an enthusiastic eight-year-old.

Trixie released him after a moment, kneeling back on the cushions to meet his eyes with a child's intent seriousness. "I'm glad you're not dead anymore, Lucifer."

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but seemed inexplicably out of words. "Right," he said finally, looking more uncomfortable than he had all night.

Chloe thought about leaving him to his fate, but her daughter probably needed her rest more than Chloe needed to see Lucifer squirm. (Probably. It was a near thing.) She did take a moment to simply take in the tableau, however—the dark, disheveled club owner, shirt undone and unconsciously provocative, and the determined innocence of Trixie in her neon pjs. It should have been dissonant, even worrisome. But Chloe found herself smiling gently, warmth flooding her for the first time in what felt like days. _Safe. Whole. Together._ "Monkey, you're supposed to be asleep. You've seen Lucifer now, so come give me a hug, and let's go back to bed."

Trixie bounced off the sofa with a sudden urgent expression. "Mommy, I remembered something important," she said, her fingers wrapping in the hem of Chloe's shirt.

"What did you remember?"

"You still want to know how Lucifer does his tricks," she replied in a stage whisper. "But Lucifer _is_ a magician! Like, a _real_ one. I know! He got better from being dead, just like the magicians in books. And since magicians nevertell their secrets, Lucifer can't tell you his. So you _know_ he must be a magician." She glanced a little shyly back over her shoulder at Lucifer, eyes wide. "Cool."

"Been looking into me again in your spare time, Detective?" He smiled toothily. "Nice to know I'm still consuming your waking thoughts. Now if only I could—". He held Chloe's warning gaze for a moment, all smugness, and let his comment drop. Instead, he gave a small bow to Trixie. "Thank you for your insight, young Beatrice. Clearly, there's some little use for you, after all."

Trixie beamed at him.

Chloe herded the little girl toward her bedroom, and Lucifer followed at a safe distance, watching curiously. "Well, Harry Potter, do you have a trick for getting little weasels to stay in bed like they're supposed to, eh?"

Lucifer just shrugged, but he leaned in the doorway while she tucked Trixie in again, and listened intently as Chloe recited their shortest storybook from memory—twice—to lull the child back to sleep. When she finally brushed past him, she held a finger to her lips and pulled the door partially closed this time. _Safe. Whole. Together._ Feeling unexpectedly content, she led the way to the back door and stepped out into the salty pre-dawn breeze. "We can talk out here. Leave the door ajar, in case she needs us."

"Us, Detective?"

"Me. Whatever. You are such a freak about kids."

"Well, your larvae is more tolerable than most," he offered. "A bit on the grabby side. You can probably train that out with time and a modicum of effort."

Chloe snorted, tucking loose hair back behind her ears. "I like her 'grabby.' It's called hugging, Lucifer. It just means she likes you."

He shuddered and hitched himself up on the porch railing. "It's invasive. And sometimes sticky."

"Stop telling her she should take all the chocolate cake she wants, and she'll be less sticky."

He hummed noncommittally.

They looked out at the dark water, the waves rolling unceasingly up with high tide, a faint silver sheen on the crests heralding the slow return of day. It was brisk, but not frigid, and the sea air felt refreshing. Penelope Decker's back porch furniture was as plush as the rest of her beautiful house, waterproof and study and expensive and comfortable. Chloe curled herself on one end of the lounge, tucking her sock feet up off the boards. As a child, she had loved sitting out here in the morning, watching the stars grow faint over the water, listening to the wind rustle its way through the greenery, the susurrus of waves against sand. Sometimes, she and Trixie still took catnaps out here, nodding over their respective tasks of police files and crayons.

Lucifer broke the hush after a few minutes. "The child is lucky to have someone so concerned about her cake morality. And her general welfare, of course."

"She's my daughter. My 'spawn,' my 'larvae,'" Chloe gently mocked him, but he didn't seem to notice. "Concern about them comes with being a parent."

"Does it?" He stared out at the glimmering sea and sky. The light was turning a heavy, humid grey, the early morning haze softening his sharp features and wicked, dark eyes. He retrieved a cigarette from its case and balanced it between his fingers, resting it on the rail without bothering to light it. "I wouldn't know."

She knew the subject was typically taboo with him, but she tried anyway. He had seemed to be in a mood for confidences, even if they were a bit strange. "Your family weren't paragons of parenting virtue, were they?"

He scoffed, the line of his shoulders stiffening. "You have no idea." When he turned to look at her, however, he seemed to deflate, his expression bemused. "But you, Detective, you were ready to die for your offspring. Nay, you knew you were _likely_ to die for the child when you went to the airport tonight. And you went anyway."

"Of course I did. She's my child. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because she—" Unsettled, he searched for an answer. "Because she hadn't been the perfect child? Because she disagreed with you, often and loudly? Because she was arrogant and angry and wouldn't obey? Wanted to go her own way, be her own person, be something other than yours?"

Chloe swallowed her immediate response (laughter and a quip about Trixie's strong-willed stubborn streak that she probably got from—well, from Chloe herself). She knew the man wasn't asking about Trixie, not really. "She's still my child, even then."

He turned away, glowering out at the rocking waves and cloud-streaked, slate-colored sky.

Chloe wondered what he was thinking. "Lucifer, I don't know what your father did to you." She saw him flinch, but forged ahead. "I can't fathom what your relationship with your family must have been like. But you're a good man. You deserved better. You were worthy of love and protection, even if you made mistakes."

When he didn't look at her, she continued, hoping she wasn't about to make things worse for him. "Parents make mistakes, too. You know that, right?"

"I'd say so, yes," he growled.

"I'm not saying that whatever your dad did wasn't unforgivable. I don't know. You won't tell me."

He gave her an exasperated look. "What part of my burning Fall is unclear to you, Detective?"

She waved off the biblical fiction. "Speaking as a parent, Lucifer—which is something I think I have a bit more experience with than you—parents do stupid, wrong things sometimes, too. They don't get a User's Guide telling them how not to screw up their kids."

"Beatrice probably only has a few complexes," he said graciously, leaning back into the vines behind him, dividing his attention between her and the seascape. "And you were hardly alone in that particular endeavor."

"Stop right there." Chloe rerouted the conversation back to her point, deciding to ignore his efforts to derail her. "Trixie is my only child, and I'm pretty sure I'm not doing everything right with her. Dan and I, we're separated, so you know things weren't ideal. My job gets in the way, for one thing. It puts me in danger, which I find hard to justify sometimes. It's not fair to her if I don't come home one day. It's probably a huge mistake to be a cop and a parent."

He was contemplating her again. "But your job doesn't outweigh her. It didn't tonight."

"Ultimately, no. Not against her life and safety, Lucifer. But life or death is the easy call. When her life is in the balance, it's the priority."

"And your point is . . .?"

"My point is that beyond that, it gets harder. Would she be better off—even happier—if I weren't a homicide cop? Maybe. Maybe not, even if the worst happens. Weighing her possible happiness against helping hundreds of others? How do I make that call? How can I judge what's most right?"

"I can assure you, my _parents_ ," he sneered, the biting sarcasm twisting his face, "were not particularly committed to the happiness of anyone. Least of all, me."

"I believe you," she soothed. "But, speaking as a parent, I dread making a decision I can't recover from with Trixie. The one where she doesn't talk to me again, where she walks out of my life the same way I wanted to escape my own mom."

"But you didn't."

"Didn't I? Did we look close to you, Lucifer? Even before you wrecked dinner?"

He didn't reply.

"If Trixie ever felt about me the way you feel about your father," she continued, knowing she looked aggrieved, torn over such a slim possibility, sympathetic toward his own ruined family. "It would be almost worse than losing her tonight. Almost."

Lucifer looked deeply bewildered. "How do you know she's worth it?"

"She doesn't have to be worth it." Sometimes the things he didn't understand boggled the mind.

"But-"

"Lucifer, look. Eventually, Trixie will grow up and make her own decisions, and I won't be able to control them. I won't always agree or think she's making the right one. You know me well enough to know I'll speak up when that's the case, but ultimately, it's her life. She deserves to live it. And, no matter what she does or decides, it won't stop me from loving her or wanting to see her safe and happy."

"But to be willing to sacrifice everything? You put yourself in the hands of a violent criminal tonight. That kind of—of—"

She offered the word. "Vulnerability?"

"Yes!" He gestured with the cigarette, a streak of white in the greying light, and Chloe thought his hand might have been trembling. "Malcolm used that against you. What's to stop another insane villain doing the same? How can you live with that weight, that risk?"

"You just do," she answered simply.

He scowled, clearly unhappy with that response. "What if you're wrong?"

"Just because you love someone enough to sacrifice for them doesn't mean it's right in the grand scheme of things, whatever that is. Sometimes there is no right. There's just what matters most to you." _Her life's at stake. I can't risk it. Trixie is all that matters._

He was silent for a long time after that. When he spoke again, she could hear wistfulness in his voice, but his face was hard, distant as the fading stars. "So, your child is worth any risk?"

"She is."

He stared at her. "And it scares you, too—her power over you, over your life and safety and happiness. How can that possibly be okay?"

In the question, Chloe could hear him processing their earlier conversation, too. His vulnerability around her—whatever that actually meant. His willingness to take a risk for her tonight, to face the same violent criminal, and to share his fears about trusting her. "Lucifer, she trusts me to care for her. She doesn't have a choice at eight years old. And, as for me, I want more than anything to be worthy of her trust." She hesitated only a moment, looking at his lean form silhouetted against the lightening sky. "And yours."

He coughed, sitting back on the railing, and took a deep drag at his cigarette before staring at its unlit tip in surprise.

After an awkward moment and stifling her own amused smile, she offered, "You said you survived tonight because your father got involved." She wasn't sure playing into his devilish facade was good for either his sanity or hers, but it seemed to be how he processed. "That's got to be a good thing, doesn't it?"

He snorted. "Well, He sent me back. But was it because I asked it of Him? Or only because I bargained? Or was it because He needed something from me for His own ends? Is the bastard just using me again? And this time apparently at my own request?" He slid his palm inside his shirt, rubbing idly at the strange hexagonal marks. "Or is this all a part of some plan, some horrible weaving whose pattern eludes me? One that looks like choice and free will and trust, but which only serves to march us ever closer to whatever endgame He's set in motion?" He twisted on his seat, turned his back on the sky. "I have never known with Him. I doubt I ever will."

"Does it have to be horrible? Could it just be complex? Could he act out of love for you that also coincides with self-interest?" She yawned, blinking. "Either way, you don't have to do anything. You're your own man, Lucifer."

"Oh, Detective," he said gravely. "You may be right. Whether by force or by fate or by my own choosing, what's come must be dealt with. And soon." He stood slowly, looking as if he had shouldered the weight of the horizon for a moment. Then, he stretched and shook himself. "But that's for another night, at least."

Chloe patted the cushion beside her, yawning again into one hand. She could feel exhaustion finally pulling at her, taking advantage of the fact that her guard was down, that she finally felt safe and comfortable after a harrowing day. When he joined her, stretching his long legs out in front of him and draping one arm along the back of the lounge, she leaned back against him. His face registered astonishment for a moment, and she felt him go rigid, then slowly relax. _It's okay,_ she thought, but didn't say out loud. _We're friends...partners. We can both use the company. And you're so very warm. And alive. And here._

"The child wasn't the only thing that mattered, Detective." He cleared his throat. "Not to me."

Again, that rush of warmth and security. Chloe smiled again and shifted to get more comfortable against his shoulder. "It's late, Lucifer," she murmured. "You should stay here tonight."

"Hardly late for me," he disagreed, but she noticed he didn't move. "And I'm not exactly dressed for a sleepover. Then again, perhaps I don't need to be dressed?" When she glanced up, his eyes gleamed with a little more of their usual enthusiasm, an edge of real interest.

And strangely, Chloe felt her world tumble back onto its axis. Lucifer was trying to get into her pants, unsubtle and unthreatening. Trixie was asleep in her room with her toys. Tomorrow there would be questions at the station about Malcolm and Dan and the money from evidence, but she could handle all of that now that these other, more important pieces were back in place.

"Clothing is not optional," Chloe reminded him sleepily. "Small child right in there, remember?"

"Whose mother left me in my current state of deshabille," he protested.

"Feel free to button up if it bothers you. Or, I have one of Dan's robes somewhere."

"I will not wear Detective Dou—" He caught himself mid-insult. "— your ex's left-behinds." He brushed invisible dust off one knee primly. "You'll excuse me for having standards."

"Oh, so, your one-night stand's dress was good enough for me to wear in public, but you—"

"Quality is quality, Detective. Have you seen what your ex typically wears?"

Chloe rolled her eyes. Honestly, she's surprised she hadn't strained something pulling disgruntled faces at the club owner over the last few months. And it felt good—ordinary and warm and right. "Fine. Sleep in your Armani. See if anyone cares if it gets wrinkled."

"Armani doesn't wrinkle, Detective," came his rejoinder. He plucked at the loose shirt. "This is Brioni and not the best of bespoke, but as it seems to have attracted more of _your_ attention and company than normal, I'm quite happy to experiment."

Exhausted by the last 48-hours, running low on caffeine and adrenaline finally, Chloe struggled to keep her eyes open. She really should haul herself up, check on Trixie one more time, and point him to the guest room upstairs before she ended up snoring on him again. Her head nodded slightly, eyes closing just for a moment, Lucifer's familiar voice washing over her like the tide.

"Do you know, I'm going through clothing at a record pace since I've started working with you, Detective. And not in the fun way, which is truly a shame. Blood stains and bullet holes abound. So much for the Devil's own luck, I suppose," he huffed.

She wrenched her eyes open again, jerking herself awake, and tried to turn to check for sound or movement beyond the open door behind them.

"Rest, Detective." Lucifer's words rolled like distant thunder beneath her cheek. "I'll keep watch."

 _The Devil's own what again?_ she wondered hazily, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lulling her, the smell of fine linen, cigarettes and whisky woven into the familiar sea-salt and sand of her home. There were worse things to be than the Devil's when he risked his life for you and your child, trusted you to have his back just as he had yours, stood guard over you like the archangel he was supposed to have been in some remote primordial past.

Chloe drifted, dreaming of something monstrous and beautiful, something that had become inexplicably hers, a red-eyed, winged and burning shape that stood between her family and imminent darkness.

* * *

As Chloe Decker slept, the Devil sat in silence, fingering his unsmoked cigarette while the sun rose behind the house, edging the clouds with pink and gold, then melting them into mist as the hours slipped by.

Just as the seabirds began their breakfasts, calling high-pitched and urgent, her child shuffled out of the house, half-asleep, eyes blinking blearily in the daylight and clutching a fleecy, misshapen toy to her chest. The Devil watched her with caution as she padded over to the lounge and crawled across her mother's knees to wriggle her small body in between them. She twisted for a moment, situating the toy like a pillow against Lucifer's side and, tucked between her mother and Satan himself, fell immediately back to sleep.

Lucifer remembered to breathe with a shudder that wasn't at all unpleasant, or sexual, or anything he had quite experienced before. Some human emotions, he thought, confusing and disruptive though they were, were also rather extraordinary.

Asleep, neither human saw his eyes blaze with the brilliant scarlet of the Los Angeles sunrise, nor heard him mutter,"They were alike, after all, the record producer and the dirty cop. They promised harm to those who are _mine_." He cast his infernal gaze upward, fierce and implacable, his quiet words taking on the resonance of ancient oath. "I'll do as I promised, Dad. I'll carry out my task and see Mum back in Hell. But," he growled, "you'd best remember your half of the bargain while I'm at it. Don't fail my trust, and I will try to do the same."

After a time, hearing no response from the heavens, the hellfire in him smoldered to ash, and his eyes cooled to black. Fitful, watchful, the Devil let himself doze in the sunlight, a hand resting on each of the humans at his side.


End file.
